All We Know of Heaven
by Sara Wolfe
Summary: Peter is placed in an orphanage, where he sees a familiar face. AU
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine; belongs to Sloane and Co. I'm just playing.**

**Tears and Rain**

**Chapter One**

The world was ending.

At least, it seemed that way. Peter was half asleep when an explosion rocked the temple, throwing him violently from his bed. He cried out in pain as he hit the stone floor, blinded and deafened by the bomb's detonation.

Staggering to his feet, he stumbled out of the cell he shared with Danny and Dennis, the two boys close behind him. In the hallway, he saw the other students, who were just as confused as he was.

"What's going on?" someone cried, as another blast shook the temple on its foundations. For the second time in minutes, Peter found himself being tossed around like a rag doll.

_'I have to find Father,'_ Peter thought, determinedly, as he dragged himself up off the floor again. _'He'll know what's going on.'_

But his goal was quickly forgotten, when he saw Danny. The younger boy was curled in a ball on the ground, moaning in pain as he clutched his bleeding leg. A broken piece of the wall lying nearby had a matching smear of blood on it.

"Danny?" Peter said, crouching and shaking his shoulder gently.

"It hurts!" the five-year-old howled, launching himself suddenly at Peter. "I'm scared, Peter!"

Peter wrapped his arms instinctively around the boy, offering what little comfort he could.

"We need to get out of here," Dennis said, quietly, echoing Peter's earlier thoughts. "We need to find Master Caine, or Master Kahn, someone who knows what's happening."

"It's obvious what's happening," Ling Wu snapped, overhearing them. "Those bigots down in the town are trying to kill us."

"We don't know that," Peter retorted instantly. "They've never caused us trouble before."

A sick, twisting feeling in his gut, however, told him that Ling Wu was probably right. Shoving it aside, Peter managed to get his arms around Danny and stood, the boy held protectively in his arms.

"Come on, Danny," he said, forcing a calm demeanor he didn't feel, "let's go find Master Ping Hai, and he'll put something on your leg, to make it feel better."

"He might even have willow bark tea for you to drink," Dennis chimed in, helping keep the younger boy calm.

"Yuck," Danny replied, echoing the manner of every boy who'd been dosed with one of Ping Hai's many teas. Peter was relieved to see nearly all traces of his earlier hysteria gone.

"I'll take him, Pete," Dennis said, reaching for Danny. "If you want to go look for your dad-"

"Wanna stay with Peter," Danny interrupted, petulantly, wrapping his arms snugly around Peter's neck.

"It's okay," Peter told Dennis. "I'll take care of Danny."

Shifting the boy to a more comfortable position in his arms, Peter walked down the hallway in the direction of the infirmary, where Ping Hai ruled. He never made it.

A black-clad figure stepped out of the shadows, and for a moment, Peter thought it was one of the monks. Then, the figure stepped into the light, and Peter recognized one of the teenagers who lived in Braniff, the town below the temple.

The boy smiled, cruelly, mockingly, and a shiver of fear ran down Peter's spine.

"Why are you doing this?" he pleaded, softly. "What have we ever done to you?"

"You existed," the teenager replied. The use of the past tense wasn't lost on Peter.

The mocking smile now gone from his face, the boy swung a rifle up into his arms, and pulled the trigger. The air around them was lit up with the explosion, and Peter jerked, staggering backward as he was struck by an unseen force. Cradled in his arms, Danny cried out, fearfully, dragging Peter out of his shock.

Turning, he sprinted back down the hallway, bullets flying around his ears. Praying desperately to remain unnoticed, he ducked into the first alcove he found, and huddled in the back, holding Danny close to his chest.

"Peter," the younger boy whimpered, and Peter shushed him, fearful that any noise would bring the townsfolk down on them.

Straining, he could hear his pursuer's footsteps growing first stronger, then fainter as he passed by their hiding spot. Peter listened for a few more, anxious moments, and when he heard nothing else, crept cautiously out of the alcove.

"It's okay, Danny," he said, softly. "I think we're safe, now."

There was no reply from his young charge, and Peter shifted Danny in his arms to look at him.

For a moment, he didn't understand what he was looking at. Then, the significance of the bright red stain spreading across Danny's chest hit him, and he let out a strangled gasp.

"No," he moaned, "Danny, please, no!"

But there was no answer from the young boy. His eyes opened, wide and unseeing, as he choked on his own blood. A thin red line trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and there was a terrible rattle from deep within his chest.

Danny gasped once, a sound that would haunt Peter for the rest of his life. Then, he was gone. Peter clutched Danny desperately to his chest, as though to transfer his own life into the small, lifeless body cradled in his arms. The horror of what had just happened consumed him, until he could feel nothing else.

Then, slowly, the logical, pragmatic part of his mind took over. He stood, still holding Danny's body, but he felt no grief when he looked at the younger boy; he felt nothing at all.

He walked slowly down the hallway, barely hearing the explosions going off all around him, the gunshots and screams. Flames consumed the temple, but he didn't feel the heat licking at his skin. He saw nothing of the blood that had been spilled on the floor, splashed on the walls.

There was only one goal in his mind: to find his father, and, in finding him, finally be safe.

Suddenly, a cold blast of wind drove him back to himself, and for a second, he thought he'd left the temple. Then, he realized that the wind was blowing through the holes that had been blown through the temple walls.

All around him, men dressed head to toe in black were fighting the monks, killing them. Guns boomed, firelight flashed off knife blades. Screams echoed through the night, blood flowed freely. And his family died in a manmade Hell.

Frantically, Peter tried to regain the calm detachment that had taken over him before, but it slipped from his grasp. He cried out, helpless to stop it as his own guttural screams were added to the cacophony of voices around him.

He stumbled through the ruins, nearly falling as he tripped over something. Quickly regaining his balance, he saw the bloodstained body of a monk, an obscene smile twisting his too-still features. Peter's stomach lurched, and he fought the urge to be sick.

A sudden, blinding pain resounded through his body and he staggered forward, Danny's weight suddenly too much to bear. He fell, heavily, clutching his stomach in agony. His fingers encountered something wet and sticky, and he lifted his hands to see them covered in his own blood. Blood currently spilling out over the ground.

Groaning in pain, Peter lifted his head, looking around for someone who could help him. Then, through a hole in the wall, he saw his father. Kwai Chang Caine stood, dazed, as he peered through the hole, clearly searching for him.

"Father!" Peter cried, reaching toward him. "Father, I'm over here!"

He was sure his father saw him. Any moment now, he'd be running over to Peter to hold him, to tell him it was all just a dream.

But his father never saw him. He staggered away from the hole in the wall, leaving his son to bleed, to die, on the cold, stone floor.

"Father!" Peter screamed, his voice echoing mockingly off the walls around him.

"Father," he whimpered, as blackness overtook him. "Please don't leave me."

Then, he knew no more.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Hours had passed since the first assault on the temple. The attackers had fled, long before the arrival of the local police. The survivors gathered their dead and mourned their wounded.

The fires raged on, an endless inferno.

And over it all, a soft rain fell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Pain. It was all he knew upon awakening. And he wanted nothing more than for it to go away.

Opening his eyes slowly, he squinted against the bright light as he tried to figure out where he was. The stark white walls surrounding him, and the multitude of blinking, softly blinking machines told him he was in a hospital.

He tried to sit up, but cried out as a sharp spike of pain lanced through his body. He slumped wearily against the pillows as the sound of running feet told him that his outcry had not gone unnoticed.

It was then that he noticed the soft bandages wrapped snugly around his abdomen and his head. There was a hard cast covering his arm from his palm to his wrist. An IV line, attached to a needle taped in his forearm, dripped fluids slowly into him.

_'What happened to me?"_ he thought, blearily.

Then, shadows darkened the doorway, and he looked up to see Ping Hai and Kahn standing near his bead, an anxious nurse right behind them.

"Are you in pain, Peter?" Ping Hai asked, quietly, as the nurse bustled around, checking machines and taking his vitals.

"Everything hurts, Master," Peter admitted, honestly. "How-" his voice cracked, and, licking parched lips, he tried again. "How did I come to be injured?"

"You do not remember?" Kahn asked, shock evident in his voice.

"No," Peter said, slowly.

He watched as the nurse left the room, and then looked around closely, taking in everything he saw. Then, he noticed something important missing from the room. Something very important.

"Master," he asked Ping Hai, "where is my father? Why isn't he here?"

"Peter," Ping Hai asked slowly, carefully, "do you remember what happened last night?"

"Not really," Peter started to answer, when he was suddenly overcome with memories of the attack on the temple.

Of the angry lynch mob burning everything in their path. Of the bodies of the injured and dead littering the ground. Of Danny's eyes staring sightlessly up at him, a dark crimson stain spreading slowly across his chest.

Peter's stomach lurched, and Kahn barely got a nearby bedpan in place before he was violently ill. He hung weakly over the edge of the bed, his stomach expelling all its contents. When there was nothing left, he shook with the exertion of the dry heaves racking his body, tears running soundlessly down his cheeks. Kahn's gentle, firm hand on his back kept him grounded, allowed him to keep a tenuous hold on his turbulent emotions.

Finally, he stopped, sagging weakly against the pillows, completely exhausted. Kahn removed himself to empty the bedpan, leaving Peter alone with Ping Hai.

"You do remember," the old priest said, quietly.

"I do," Peter replied. "Master, why would they do that to us?"

"It is a hatred bred from fear," Ping Hai told him. "They fear what they do not understand, and so seek to destroy it."

"Where is Father?" Peter asked again, suddenly restless. "Master, why isn't he here?"

"Peter," Ping Hai said, softly, a terrible heaviness in his voice. "Peter, Kwai Chang Caine is gone."

"Gone?" Peter repeated, confused. "What do you mean he's gone?"

"He is dead," Ping Hai said simply, seeing no other way to soften the blow.

"No!" Peter screamed, lurching out of the bed, barely noticing when the IV was ripped from his arm.

"Peter," Kahn said, dashing across the room to catch the boy before he fell.

"No!" Peter cried, again, swinging his fists wildly to get Kahn to let him go. "Father's hurt; he needs me!"

"Peter, your father-" Kahn said, tears choking his voice.

"He's not dead!" Peter yelled, anguished. "He's not. He said he'd never leave me!"

Peter made another break for the door, but was stopped by Kahn's arms holding him back. Wildly, the boy struggled, but the monk never let him go. Finally, Peter stopped fighting and collapsed against Kahn, sobs racking his body.

"He said he'd never leave me," he whispered, over and over, as the tears fell.

"I know," Kahn said, wrapping his arms around Peter and holding him as he grieved.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

A week later, Peter stood in the wreckage of his home, and mourned. He'd been released from the hospital the day before, but Ping Hai had forbidden him from going to the temple so soon after his release, and Peter had been too tired to argue.

Now, as he stood there, a part of him wished he'd never come at all. There was nothing left, after all. Nothing but ghosts, and demons, and dragons under the bed.

_'Father, I'm over here!"_

Shaking himself before he could get lost in the memories, Peter wandered aimlessly through the fallen stone walls. He stopped suddenly, when he reached the place where he'd fallen, and saw nearby, a splash of blood that had to have come from Danny when he tumbled from Peter's arms.

Dimly, Peter remembered how the little boy had kept bleeding long after life had left his body, and he wanted desperately to be sick, again. But he reined the impulse in and forced himself to stare at the ruins.

For a second, Peter half expected Danny to be lying there on the ground, his eyes open wide, accusing Peter of not protecting him. But he'd been buried like the rest of the dead had been buried. Like his father had been buried.

At the thought, tears welled up in his eyes, but he dashed them away, angrily.

_'Stop it,'_ Peter told himself, sternly. _'Falling apart here does no one any good. It certainly won't bring him back.'_

"Nothing will ever bring him back," he muttered, and was shocked at how loud his voice sounded in the chilling silence of the temple.

Continuing his solitary trek, he made his way to what had once been his father's quarters. Fallen stone covered everything, and Peter shifted it aside, ignoring the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the movements pulled at his stitches.

He'd been told, before his release, how close he'd really come to death. The bullet that had imbedded itself in his back, the doctor had said, would have killed him, had it been an inch higher. Instead, it nicked a lung, necessitating a long surgery to remove it and repair the damage. That, and his broken wrist, was the reason he'd been kept so long at the hospital.

The doctor who'd treated him had expressed concern over Peter leaving the hospital as soon as he did, but Ping Hai had been adamant. He'd been worried that Dao, who'd orchestrated the attack on the temple, would come after Peter, and the other survivors, if they stayed there any longer.

_'And innocent people would be hurt in the process,'_ Peter thought, as he uncovered what he'd been searching for: his father's chest. _'No, Ping Hai was right to get all of us out of the hospital. No matter what those doctors think.'_

Peter pulled the heavy chest out into the meager light, brushing dust off the lid with a gentle hand. The lock, anchored only by charred wood, snapped off easily in his hand, and he threw back the lid.

Inside were the few material possessions his father had treasured, and they were what Peter was after. The pictures were mostly ruined, but there were a few, of Peter, of his father, a single, precious one of his mother, that were salvageable, and Peter gathered them up carefully, putting them in his jacket pocket.

His father's ceremonial dagger was next, and Peter anxiously checked it to make sure it was undamaged. Then, at the very bottom of the chest, he found his great-grandfather's medallion, the heirloom that had survived over one hundred years in their family.

Very carefully, so as not to break the fragile chain, Peter unhooked the clasp, placing in around his own neck. As the metal touched his skin, he was surprised at how cool it felt.

_'Like it was never touched by the flames,' _he mused.

Then, he heard his name being called, and turned to see Ping Hai standing at the edge of the ruins, gesturing at him. Picking his way carefully across the broken stones, Peter joined the old Master.

"Peter," Ping Hai said, "it is becoming late. We need to be leaving."

"Can I see Father, first?" Peter blurted out, anxiously.

"Of course," Ping Hai said, softly.

He led the boy to the beginning of a path into the forest, where a stone marker had been erected. There was no name on the headstone, but there didn't need to be. This place, so completely calm when so close to such horror, could only be because of his father's spirit.

Peter reached out, hesitantly tracing the elegant characters carved into the stone, one of Kwai Chang Caine's favorite parables. Then, he sank to his knees in front of the stone, tears flowing freely down his face.

Dimly, he heard Ping Hai's voice, but he couldn't make out the old man's words. Eventually, Ping Hai moved a respectful distance away, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts and his grief.

"I miss you, Pop," Peter said, softly, when he was sure he wouldn't be overheard. "I know, I know, don't call you that," he added, a small, tearful smile gracing his face as his father's words came unbidden to his mind.

"It feels like something was just ripped out of me," he whispered. "It hurts so much."

A lump formed in his throat, choking him, and he cleared his throat a couple of times.

"Ping Hai's my guardian, now," he continued, when he could talk again. "Just like you arranged with that lawyer. Why did you do that? Did you know something was going to happen? Did you know you'd be leaving me-?"

He cut himself off, dashing angry tears from his eyes as he forced himself to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Pop, of course, you couldn't have known," he said, quietly. "How could you have? Anyway," he continued, stronger now, "Ping Hai has a brother in New York, and we're flying there tonight, to live with him and his daughter, Xiaoli. I guess I'm just too much for Ping Hai to handle on his own."

He laughed, softly, sadly, as he remembered his father's remarks that, as active as he was, it truly would take a village to raise him.

"I have to go now, Pop," he said, after a long moment. "Kahn's waiting to drive us to the airport."

Standing, he sucked in a sharp breath as his side ached, then turned away to join Ping Hai. Walking away, he whispered, "I love you, Father."

**A/N: Please leave reviews. They're the only way I can tell if this story is worth it or not.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Pain was his constant companion, these days.

Three months had passed since the destruction of the temple, but Peter's grief was as fresh as if had happened only yesterday. There was a gaping hole in his heart, where his father had been, and some days, it seemed to only get bigger.

And he hurt physically, as well. The bullet wound in his abdomen was still healing, and his wrist was weak from having been in a cast for over two months.

It didn't help matters any that he and Ping Hai were strangers. It was easier for Ping Hai, as his age afforded him a certain amount of respect. Peter had no such protection.

The white kids at his new school (another thing that was so different from the temple) teased him mercilessly about his Chinese heritage and about how little of their world that he knew. The Chinese youths in the neighborhood taunted him as a foreigner, refusing to acknowledge his place in their world.

Some days, Peter felt like nothing more than giving it all up. But, there was Ping Hai to consider, so he banished those thoughts, and focused on taking life one day at a time.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Peter and Ping Hai were making their way up the stairs, their arms loaded with groceries, when Ping Hai suddenly gasped. The bags fell from his arms to crash on the stairs, and Peter watched in horror as the old man collapsed.

He fell backward, tumbling down the stairs they'd just climbed to the landing below. There was a dull thud as his body impacted with the concrete, and then he was still-so still.

For one agonizing moment, time seemed to stop as Peter stared at the body crumpled at the base of the stairs. Then, heedless of his own safety, he was sprinting back down, to Ping Hai's side, his voice raised in hysterical screams.

People poured out of the other apartments at the sound of his cries. Someone dropped to the floor beside Ping Hai, checking his pulse and breathing. Another ran back for a phone, to call for an ambulance.

Peter saw none of it. He couldn't feel the tears that poured down his cheeks. His world had narrowed to the frail old man lying so still on the cold, hard floor.

_'Please,'_ he prayed, silently. _'Please, don't leave me.'_

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Henry McGregor stared at the mess his office had become. Normally a very meticulous person, he was dismayed to see the chaos that had befallen the order that ruled his life. But that was to be expected, what with the sudden influx of children coming into the orphanage.

Kyle Bettinger, for one, was back after a failed placement.

_'Failed, indeed,'_ he thought, wryly.

Kyle's foster father had leveled a charge of burglary against him, claiming that Kyle had stolen some of his wife's jewelry. Kyle insisted that he'd done nothing of the sort; that he'd never touched the jewelry. A thorough search had finally netted the jewelry in the possession of the foster family's oldest child, but, innocent though he might have been, Kyle was still out of a home.

There was Wolf Gannett, who'd been dumped on the front steps late last night, with literally nothing more than the clothes on his back. His mother (_adoptive_ mother, McGregor reminded himself) had, in her usual pattern, run low on money, crack, and patience with the boy she'd adopted twelve years ago. But, if history repeated itself, as it was likely to, she'd be back in a month, with a wad of cash, a sob story about her hard-to-manage bipolar disorder, and open arms for her son. And Wolf would go back to her, just like he had the other times, because he wanted so desperately to believe that she loved him.

_'Not this time,'_ McGregor thought, grimly. _"I'll be damned if I let him go back to that monster, only to come back here completely shattered, again.'_

And then there was Peter Caine. A new arrival, due to be there at any minute, he'd been picked up at the hospital by a social worker after his guardian had suffered a heart attack. Mother dead for ten years, the concise report read, father for three months. He had no other family. And so he was coming here.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Peter stared apprehensively at the massive brick building in front of him and swallowed, nervously. Beside him, the social worker gave him a reassuring smile, patting his arm in what was meant to be a gesture of comfort.

"How about we go inside and meet Mr. McGregor?" she asked, kindly.

She led him up the paved stone walkway, past a small sign reading 'Pathways Children's Home'. Then, they were through the big front doors, and into a thickly carpeted lobby. Through a nearby doorway, Peter could see a group of young children playing some sort of board game.

Sensing they were being watched, they stopped their game to stare at Peter with unabashed curiosity. He stared back, like a deer caught in the headlights, until the social worker took his arm and led him down the hallway, to a door with a plaque inscribed with 'Henry McGregor, Director'.

"Henry, I've got the new one with me," the social worker said.

She knocked perfunctorily as they entered the small, cramped office. Peter swallowed hard, wondering if it was too late to develop claustrophobia.

There was a man standing near the only window in the office, his back to them as he stared out at the grounds. Then, he turned to face them, and Peter got his first look at the director of Pathways.

A tall, slim man in his early thirties, Henry McGregor had expressive blue eyes, prematurely graying hair and an easy smile that lit up his whole face. It was this smile that greeted Peter as McGregor crossed the room in a few, quick strides, and held a hand out for Peter to shake.

Peter quickly shook the man's hand, taking the seat he'd indicated in front of his battered desk as the social worker slipped quietly from the room. And Peter was left alone with McGregor.

He wrung his hands, nervously, as he stared at the man. The silence in the room was fraught with tension. Finally, McGregor picked up a piece of paper and leaned forward on his desk.

"I understand your legal guardian had a heart attack?" he asked, quietly.

"They won't tell me how he is!" Peter burst out, suddenly, desperation plain in his voice.

"Who won't?" McGregor asked, confused.

"The people at the hospital," Peter told him. "They took Ping Hai away in an ambulance after he collapsed, and no one would tell me what was happening. And then I got dragged here," he added, resentfully.

He dropped his head to stare at the floor and saw, out of the corner of his eye, McGregor dialing a number on the phone.

"Glenn Cross Hospital?" he said. "I'm calling to check on the status of Ping Hai Chen," he added, glancing at the sheet of paper in front of him.

"That's right, admitted for a heart attack," he said, in response to the person on the other end. "He's in Recovery right now? Can he have visitors? No sooner than tomorrow? I see. Well, I'll be bringing Mr. Chen's legal ward down tomorrow to see him."

At this last, Peter's head snapped up and he stared, openmouthed, at McGregor. McGregor finished his conversation and hung up, smiling at Peter.

"He's going to be just fine," he assured Peter. "Tomorrow, I'll take you down to the hospital, and you can see him then; how's that sound?"

Peter stared dumbfounded at McGregor for a long moment, but before he could begin to think him, the door burst open behind him and someone flew into the room. Turning around curiously, he was amazed to find himself looking at himself.

The other boy skidded to a sudden stop as Peter stood up. Both eyed each other warily, taking in all they could.

_'So that's what I'd look like with hair,'_ Peter thought, distractedly.

He took a few, cautious steps toward his mirror image, just as the other boy reached out to poke him in the chest. Startled, Peter reacted with years of training, grabbing the other boy's wrist and twisting it, bending his arm behind his back.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

McGregor could only stare in shock at the sight before him. Except for the hair (or lack, thereof, on Peter's part), the boys could be twins.

_'Hell,'_ some idle part of his mind chimed in, _'they are twins!'_

Peter and Wolf eyed each other like a pair of fighters sizing each other up. Then, Wolf poked Peter in the chest, only his finger never landed on its target.

Faster than McGregor could see, Peter's hand snapped out, seizing Wolf's wrist and twisting it behind his back. Wolf swung wildly at Peter to try and get free, in a blow that went wide of its mark, but quickly sensed he couldn't win that way. So he changed his tactics.

Straightening up as much as possible, given his awkward position, he grinned at Peter.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" he asked, eagerly.

"What?" Peter asked, confused and startled enough that he let go.

"That move you just did," Wolf clarified, rubbing his sore wrist. "Can you teach it to me?"

"I guess so," Peter said, slowly, still clearly baffled.

An awkward silence fell over the room, as the boys stared at each other again, broken by McGregor clearing his throat.

"I guess a DNA test will be in order for tomorrow as well," he remarked, mildly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

After the shock of meeting his double had subsided, introductions were made and a tour of the orphanage was arranged. In short order, Peter found himself being pushed out of the office, with Wolf as his guide.

"We'll start with the rec room," Wolf told him, as they walked down the hallway.

"Wreck room?" Peter asked, dubiously.

"As in recreation?" Wolf prompted. "Haven't you ever heard of a rec room?"

"No," Peter admitted, ducking away suddenly as Wolf reached out to touch the top of his head. "What are you doing?"

"Why are you bald?" Wolf asked.

As Peter tried to gather his scattered thoughts into an answer that made sense, Wolf gestured to the room beyond the doorway they were standing in. The same children that Peter had seen upon his arrival were still there, only this time they were staring intently at a small television set.

"This is the rec room," Wolf said, gesturing. "We play games, watch tv, do homework, or whatever. It's not very much," he added, leading the way back down the hallway.

"So, did you have lice?" he asked.

"What?" Peter asked, confused again. He had the feeling that was a common occurrence around Wolf.

"Why you're bald," Wolf said. "Is it because you had lice? Or cancer?"

"No and no," Peter replied. "I lived in a Shaolin temple," he elaborated, sadly.

"What's that?" came the immediate response.

"Shaolin is a sect of Buddhism," Peter informed him.

"Cool. So you're like a monk?"

"Disciple," Peter corrected, smiling slightly. "Dad was a priest."

"With a kid?" Wolf asked, incredulously.

"Shaolin priests aren't like Catholic priests," Peter replied. "They can get married, have families, and everything."

"Cool," Wolf said, again.

He fell silent for a while as they continued their tour. He showed Peter the gym, with its basketball courts and catwalk, the kitchens, where they filched cookies from the cook, and the wing with the rooms.

"Do you think McGregor's right?" Wolf asked, as he showed Peter around his room. "Do you think your dad is my dad, too?"

Peter looked up at the other boy and was surprised to see hope shining so plainly on his face.

"I don't know," he replied, honestly. "Dad never told me that I might have a brother."

"Would he have any reason to keep it a secret?" Wolf asked.

"Yeah," Peter said, ruefully. "I was only two when Mom died, and I never took it very well. I couldn't even visit her grave. He probably thought hearing about a brother I'd never be able to meet was too much to handle."

"When's your birthday?" Wolf asked, suddenly. "I don't really know mine, since I didn't have a birth certificate with me when I was found."

"December 15th," Peter told him. "What do you mean, when you were found?"

"Twelve years ago, around Christmas," Wolf began, slowly, "McGregor found me, as an infant, lying on a pile of trash in an alleyway near here. He said it was snowing really hard, and that if he'd found me any later, I might not have survived."

"Wow," Peter whispered.

"He brought me here, where he worked as a social worker at the time, and he arranged my adoption," Wolf continued. "And Mom dumps me back here, with him, whenever she gets tired of me. Which is usually once every six or seven months."

"It sounds like he really cares," Peter said. "Why didn't McGregor adopt you?"

"All adoptions and foster situations have to be approved by the state," Wolf said, sounding as though he were parroting an oft-heard line. "They didn't approve of McGregor as a parent," he added, bitterly.

"They probably wouldn't have approved of Dad, either," Peter told him.

"Tell me about him," Wolf requested, settling on his bed. Peter followed suit on the bed on the other side of the room.

"He was the greatest…"

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Peter stifled a yawn as he followed Wolf through the doors of the hospital lobby, and McGregor shot him a look.

"Did you two get any sleep, or did you just talk all night?" he demanded.

"Talked all night," Wolf replied, unrepentantly, not even bothering to hide his yawn.

"We got some sleep," Peter protested.

"Yeah," Wolf agreed. "An hour's some, right?"

"You're both impossible," McGregor informed them, shaking his head. "We're here to see Ping Hai Chen, and Dr. Sabourin," he told the receptionist, stopping at the desk.

"Mr. Chen is in Room 204, and Dr. Sabourin is with a patient," the receptionist told them, consulting quickly with her computer. "I can have her contact you when she's done, though."

"Thank you," McGregor said.

He led the way down the hall to the elevators, pushing the call button. They piled on, Peter cramming himself in the corner and staring resolutely at the doors. When they slid open, he was the last one out, and he carefully kept from looking out the nearby window.

"You okay, Peter?" McGregor asked, concerned.

"I have a problem with heights," Peter explained.

"We're only one story up," Wolf protested, as McGregor elbowed him, sharply.

"It's still height," Peter replied.

"204's this way," McGregor told them, dragging Wolf down the hall with him, as he opened his mouth to say something. Luckily, he got the hint and shut up.

They reached 204, and Peter stopped short when he saw how close to the window Ping Hai's bed was. Then, he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, determinedly. Fixing his eyes on the old man in the bed, he ignored the dizzying view out the window.

Upon seeing Peter, the old man's eyes lit up, and Peter beamed his first, genuine smile in over a day as he embraced Ping Hai.

"Are you well, Master?" he asked, eagerly, settling with remarkable grace into a nearby chair, in a painful-looking cross-legged pose that had Wolf and McGregor wincing just watching it.

"I will be," Ping Hai told him. Eying Peter, he added, "Your lotus needs work."

Peter frowned for a moment, tucking his legs even closer to his body, and Wolf whimpered involuntarily in pain.

"Who are your friends, Peter?" Ping Hai asked, looking over at the other visitors.

"That's Mr. McGregor, who runs the orphanage," Peter said. "And that's Wolf-"

His voice trailed off uneasily, as he considered how to best explain the other boy.

"Your brother," Ping Hai finished for him, softly.

"You knew?" Peter exclaimed. "Of course you knew," he muttered, a second later. "You know everything."

"I am not omnipotent," Ping Hai said. "But I do know of your brother."

"If you know that they really are brothers," McGregor interrupted, "then do you know how they were separated?"

"When the two of you were born," Ping Hai said, looking at Peter and Wolf, as Wolf crept cautiously closer to his bedside, "your father was away, helping a young family several towns away.

"Your mother was still in her eighth month of pregnancy, and was not expected by any to go into premature labor. But, she did, although I suspect it was not accident."

"Pop said you and Master Dao were there when I was born," Peter said. "Did he give Mom something to induce labor?"

"He must have," Ping Hai informed them. "I was not present when Laura began to have contractions, and by the time I arrived, she was already delivering the second baby. You," he added, looking at Peter.

"And what about the first baby?" Wolf asked, softly, unsure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Dao informed me with great sadness that the first baby had been a stillbirth, and was so mis-formed that it was unwise to let either parent view the body," Ping Hai told him. "He bid me to care for Laura, while he dealt with the burial."

"But why only kidnap one baby?" McGregor asked.

"I do not believe that was his plan," Ping Hai said, gravely. "I believe he intended to tell Kwai Chang Caine that both his sons, and possibly his wife, as well, had died in labor. He was going to kill all of you."

"But you showed up and ruined all that," Peter filled in.

The soft sound of a throat clearing behind them interrupted all further conversation, and they turned to see a woman in a lab coat standing nearby.

"I'm Dr. Sabourin," she introduced herself. "I understand you wanted to speak with me?"

"I'm Henry McGregor," McGregor told her. "We spoke yesterday on the phone, about DNA tests?"

"For a pair of your charges, that's right," she said, looking over at the boys.

Peter slowly unwound himself from the chair and walked over to stand beside Wolf as the doctor eyed them curiously.

"Well, if you'll come with me, I'll take you to the lab," she said, at last.

"You go ahead, boys," McGregor told them. "There's something I need to talk to Ping Hai about, first."

He waited until they'd followed Dr. Sabourin out of the room before turning back to the old man. He was about to speak, when Ping Hai beat him to it.

"I will be released from this place in two days' time," he said. "At that time, I wish to explore gaining guardianship of young Wolf."

"It's not that simple," McGregor told him, regretfully. "Right now, you're not even Peter's guardian, anymore. When you were admitted, you signed papers making him a ward of the state of New York."

"I thought I was dying," Ping Hai told him. "I felt it was necessary."

"Nevertheless, you did sign the papers," McGregor reminded him. "And I don't think you'll be able to get your guardianship back."

"Why not?" Ping Hai asked, showing, for the first time, a hint of anger.

McGregor sighed, knowing there was no easy way to put his answer, that it would hurt no matter what the words.

"Because you're not what the state would consider a proper candidate for a foster parent."

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

McGregor reached the door leading to the lab just as Peter and Wolf emerged, with Dr. Sabourin following them.

"You'll get the results of the tests in a couple of weeks," she told them, seeming unsurprised to see him standing there. "Although, I probably don't think you really need them."

"Probably not," he agreed, quietly, looking at the boys-the brothers.

"Are we leaving?" Peter asked him. "Because I wanted to say goodbye to Ping Hai, first."

"You can," McGregor assured him. "We'll pass right by his room, anyway, on the way to the elevator."

"Great," Peter said. "Can we come back to visit, again?"

"He's going to be released in a couple of days," McGregor hedged.

"So, we can see him then," Wolf said.

Peter didn't reply, instead staring at McGregor intently.

"Ping Hai can't become my guardian, again, can he?" he asked, suddenly.

"No," McGregor admitted, honestly, after a shocked moment of wondering how the boy had known. "The state's not likely to allow it for either of you."

"That's not fair," Wolf muttered, sulkily.

"Because he's not proper?" Peter asked, and McGregor was surprised at the amount of cynicism in his voice.

"That's right," he replied. "This doesn't mean you still can't see him," he hastened to assure Peter. "I'll see to it, myself."

Peter simply nodded before walking down the hall, Wolf following. McGregor watched them go, sighing heavily.

_'What am I going to do about them?'_

**Author's Note: If you read, please, please, _please_review.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_'What am I going to do about them?' _McGregor thought, in an unconscious echo of three weeks ago, at the hospital.

The "them" in question were none other than Peter and Wolf. The two miscreants sat in front of his desk, fidgeting and staring at the carpeting. Or rather, Peter stared at the carpet in shame; Wolf was too keyed up and full of anger to feel any sort of remorse for his actions.

"Would you care to explain this?" he asked, his voice ominously soft, breaking the tension-filled silence as he brandished a report from their principal.

"Fine," he continued, icily, when neither boy spoke up. "Let me restate my question. What could have possibly possessed you to get into a fight on school grounds? A fight, I might add, that resulted in two broken noses and a sprained ankle. Not to mention your possible suspensions, if not expulsions, from school."

Peter flushed a deep crimson as he gingerly touched the bandage covering his nose, and Wolf finally started to look guilty, although McGregor had a feeling that it wasn't about the fight.

"What happened?" McGregor demanded, as the silence threatened to stretch on forever.

"They started it," Wolf said, sullenly. "They did!" he insisted, when McGregor looked sharply at him. "Those idiots called Peter a skinhead."

"And you felt the best way to deal with that was to get in a fight?" McGregor asked, rhetorically.

"I-" Wolf began, but cut himself off, clearly seeing no good way to answer that question.

"What about you?" McGregor asked, rounding on Peter. "What convinced you that brawling was a better way to go about things than going to the proper authorities?"

"I'm not a skinhead," Peter said, quietly, even as he continued his introspection of the floor. "I'm not that kind of person."

"Of course you're not," McGregor said, impatiently. "But that still doesn't explain why you couldn't have just gone to the principal about this."

"He wouldn't have done anything," Peter snapped, suddenly, his eyes flashing with anger as he locked gazes with McGregor.

"That's not-"

"They never do," he continued, as though McGregor hadn't spoken. "It just gets laughed off and overlooked, and their hate festers and grows until everything explodes and people die-Father died-"

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

It was strange. He could hear himself speaking, but he couldn't make out the words.

_'Must be going deaf,'_ he thought, idly, even as words continued to pour from his mouth.

Strange, again, that tightening in his chest. It felt like a fist was gripping his lungs, squeezing all the air out. Strange.

The words were still coming from his mouth, still indistinguishable. Only now they were punctuated by sharp gasps for air. _His_ sharp gasps for air, he realized.

And the tightening was getting worse. Like a great weight had settled on his chest, crushing his lungs, his heart.

He could even feel it skip a beat now and then.

An interesting sensation, but nowhere near as interesting as trying to force air into lungs that didn't want to open.

Experimentally, he tried to draw in a breath, and dark black spots swam in front of his eyes. That's when he knew he was in trouble.

He tried, deliberately, to form words, to plead for help, but no sound would emerge. Around him, he could hear people speaking, their voices crashing down on him, wave after wave. He cringed away from the noise even as he cursed it for swallowing up his own desperate cries.

Panicked now, he gaped, sucking in what little air he could. His hands, of their own volition, gripped something in front of him. Dimly, he registered the feel of soft cloth beneath his fingers.

The room spun, and he clutched the cloth for dear life.

Finally, words exploded from his throat.

_"Can't. Breathe!"_

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

McGregor sat, stunned, as Peter continued to speak, his words coming faster and faster, until they were practically tumbling over each other as they left his mouth. Never before had he revealed so much of his past, of the events that led up to his arrival at the orphanage.

But it all spilled out, now, with a frightening intensity. Looking at him, McGregor was sure Peter wasn't even aware of what he was saying.

Then, he noticed the glassy, shocked, look in Peter's eyes, the way his pupils had dilated their widest, the clammy sheen of sweat that covered his gray skin. His breathing was quick and shallow as he desperately gasped for air. His pulse pounded rapidly, easily seen at the base of his throat.

Even as he realized the boy was having a panic attack, he was up and moving around the desk. Kneeling in front of Peter's chair, he gripped his shoulders, surprised when Peter clutched at his shirt, his hands trembling.

"Can't breathe," he choked out, a wild, frantic look in his eyes.

"Yes, you can," McGregor soothed, calmly. "Just one after another. In and out. In and out."

He slowed the pacing of his words as he noticed Peter matching his breaths to the rhythm he set. Slowly, the panic, the fear, left his eyes, and his hands stopped their wild shaking. Just as slowly, he released the death grip he had on McGregor's shirt.

Wolf silently held a glass of water out to his brother, and he took it, sipping slowly as he worked to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, finally, his eyes downcast.

"That's okay," McGregor assured him. "Are you all right, now?"

"I think so," Peter replied, softly, still unwilling to meet McGregor's eyes.

"Why don't you go back to your room and get some rest?" McGregor suggested.

Peter just nodded, rising only when Wolf tugged his arm, following him out of the room and down the hall. McGregor watched them go, a concerned frown creasing his face, before crossing his office to the file cabinet.

Opening it, he pulled out Peter's file. He shuffled through the birth certificate and his social worker's various reports before finding what he was looking for at the very bottom-the police reports from the night Peter's (Peter and Wolf's, a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him) father had died.

He'd meant to read them when Peter had first arrived. But, one thing led to another, and his duties piled up, and he couldn't find the time to read them, not when the boy in question seemed so happy and well-adjusted. Obviously an act, he realized.

Well, he'd make the time to read them, now.

The police reports were dry and concise, mincing no words. The religious compound where Peter had lived had been completely destroyed. The attack had been led by one Vance Cavanaugh, of Braniff, California, who'd rallied several of his neighbors and led them on a slaughter.

Seventeen people had died that night, nine adults and eight children. Six more, Peter included, had been injured and hospitalized.

There'd only been ten survivors.

Cavanaugh was quoted in the report as claiming to have been making the country a better place. By, in his own words, "ensuring the sanctity of the proper race." He'd been on a mission to eliminate innocent people, simply because they didn't match up to his standards.

_'White supremacy at its worst,'_ McGregor realized. _'This is why Peter was so upset. To be compared to the people that destroyed his family, his life…No wonder he had a breakdown.'_

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"Are you really okay?"

Peter looked up from his seat on his bed to see Wolf hovering over him, worriedly.

"I am now," he replied. "I just-"

"Lost it in there?" Wolf suggested, finishing his thought. "Peter, why didn't you tell me any of this? About the night when your-_our_-dad died?"

"I couldn't," Peter said, softly, miserably. "I couldn't talk about it."

"McGregor's going to want you to," Wolf told him. "He's going to want you to see a shrink."

"I don't need counseling," Peter muttered. "I can handle this."

"Like you handled it in there?" Wolf asked, sarcastically. "You scared the hell out of me," he continued, talking right over Peter's protests. "I don't want to see you go through that, again."

"I can't just talk to some stranger about this!" Peter snapped. "They'd never understand."

"Then find someone who does," Wolf retorted. "Like that old man, Ping Hai. McGregor said you could start seeing him more than once a week. This is the perfect way to do that."

"I can't just-" Peter protested.

"He's a priest, right?" Wolf asked, interrupting him, yet again. "Priests do confessions, counseling."

"Wrong religion," Peter told him.

"Bet he'd agree with me, though," Wolf replied.

"I can't burden Ping Hai with this," Peter said. "He's just getting over his heart attack. I don't want to make things worse."

After a long moment, he whispered, "I don't want to lose him. He's all I've got left."

"But he's not all you have, now," Wolf told him. "You don't have to go at this alone, Peter. Let someone help you."

Peter closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a sudden, irrational protectiveness of his memories of that night. They were his memories, damn it. Why should he have to share them with anyone?

At the same time, he wanted-he needed, he realized-to lean on, to confide in someone else. Someone who already knew everything. Someone who wouldn't judge him, wouldn't analyze him, would only listen.

Someone like a Shaolin priest, he thought, with a tiny smile.

"Okay," he said, finally, meeting Wolf's eyes. "I'll talk to someone."

**Author's Note: Yeah, I know, that was kind ofa weak ending. I'll make it up to you next time.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

McGregor stood on the catwalk and stared down at the scene playing out in the gym below his perch. The Peter Caine currently roughhousing with his brother and wrestling for control of the basketball was worlds away from the angry, scared boy who'd broken down in his office two weeks ago.

For one thing, he was actually acting like a kid, again.

Of course, having someone to talk to on a regular basis was probably the reason for the sudden turnaround. And who ever would have thought that it would be one of the priests from his temple?

Not Ping Hai; Peter had been adamant about not troubling the old man. And, seeing how frail he looked out of the hospital, McGregor found himself inclined to agree. No, this was a younger man, name of Kahn.

Whether that was a first name, last name, or only name, McGregor didn't know (and wasn't likely to find out, he thought). And, with his gleaming bald head and mustache, the man looked like he should be a Hell's Angel, rather than a priest. But, appearances were deceiving.

Kahn was an amazingly soft-spoken man, one who projected an aura of peace and calm.

_'Projected an aura?'_ McGregor thought, with a purely mental snort. _'I'm starting to sound like them.'_

He didn't know if Kahn had been in New York all along, but, he'd been there, in Ping Hai's kitchen, sipping a cup of tea and waiting for Peter, the day after Peter had decided he'd accept help. And Peter had greeted his presence with such blatant joy that it was obvious that he was good for the boy.

He was more than good for him, McGregor reflected. He was essential. He was just as beloved as Ping Hai was, as Wolf had become. Tearing any of them away from him would likely destroy him.

A sudden shriek jerked him off the dark path his thoughts had taken, and he looked down in time to see Peter steal the ball out from under Wolf's nose and sink a quick basket. He pumped a fist in the air, in an impromptu victory dance, grinning happily.

"That'll be 's'," he informed Wolf, gleefully.

"I am not losing a game of horse to you," Wolf growled. "Not happening."

"Yes, happening," Kyle chimed in, from his nearby spot on the bleachers. "Peter's kicking your butt, Wolfie."

"I'll kick your butt if you call me that again," Wolf threatened.

"Not this again," Peter groaned, interrupting them. "If you pick a fight with Kyle, you'll want me to jump in."

"Well, you do know all the good moves," Wolf told him.

That had been another thing that Kahn had brought back to Peter. He was teaching Peter kung fu again, something that he'd done at the temple. And the kid was good at it, McGregor reflected. He was even teaching Wolf some of the more basic moves, with a lot more patience than McGregor would have originally credited to the thirteen-year-old.

Then, the sound of a throat clearing caught his attention, and the reason for his being out on the catwalk reasserted itself.

McGregor whistled, drawing the attention of every kid down in the gym. They all looked up at him, falling silent as they waited for him to speak. He didn't disappoint them.

"Meeting in the rec room," he called, making sure his voice carried. "I have an announcement to make."

Ignoring the sudden rush of mutters that greeted his statement, he turned and descended the catwalk, helping his guest down, as well. Then, they went to the rec room, barely beating the crowd from the gym. He waited while they got themselves settled, still muttering, and then called for silence.

"As some of you are aware," he began, "I've been the director of Pathways for nearly ten years. I've thought of them as good years, even if some of you seem to think that I exist solely to make your lives miserable."

He paused, hoping for a laugh, or at least a few smiles, but no one obliged. It was as though they knew that, whatever he had to say, they weren't going to like it. He heaved a heavy sigh.

"The other day," he continued, "my bosses at DSHS contacted me. They gave me a promotion, and with it, a position in the upstate offices."

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Wolf broke in, his voice flat, and comprehension dawned on the rest of the faces.

Most of them were staring at him in disbelief, pleas for denial written clearly on their faces.

"Yes," McGregor said, slowly, watching as no few of those expressions turned to horror, or worse, anger. "Yes, I've accepted the promotion, and will be leaving tonight."

"I am Sister Agnes," his guest interjected, smoothly, before the furious whispers could erupt into mutiny. "I will be taking Mr. McGregor's place as the director of Pathways."

Absolute silence greeted this pronouncement, as the kids compared the frail, gray-haired nun to their former director.

"I look forward to meeting with all of you, personally," she continued, taking advantage of the sudden hush that had fallen over the room. "And I'm looking forward even more to our communal gathering at Mass, this Sunday."

The silence was abruptly broken in a clamor of words, as the implications of this statement sunk in. Peter, in particular, looked extremely worried, but McGregor couldn't figure out why until he heard Wolf mutter, "Ten bucks says she uses the word heathen when she finds out you're a Buddhist."

"And what do you want to bet every foster applicant who isn't a nice, proper, Christian gets turned down?" Kyle chimed in.

"She might not be so bad," Peter said, but he looked doubtful.

Kyle snorted in derision.

"I'll bet she pinches," he said, with the air of one with long experience with such matters. "Look at those nails."

Hearing this, McGregor couldn't help but glance over at Sister Agnes, and the long, wicked-looking talons on the end of her fingers.

_'Fingernails!'_ he told himself, with a sharp, mental shake. _'You're letting the kids' emotions get the best of you.'_

But, at the same time, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have accepted the promotion, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Six months down the line found the brothers once again playing basketball. It was evident, though, that neither of them really had their mind on the game.

"I can't believe this," Wolf said, disgusted. "We're not even together a year, and they're already splitting us up."

He threw the ball at the basket, but it sailed clear over the backboard. Sighing, Peter trotted after it.

"It might not be too bad," he offered, as he rejoined his brother, idly dribbling the ball. "They're letting us call each other."

"Once a week for half an hour," Wolf responded, bitterly. "Some deal. Why aren't you angry about this?" he demanded, when Peter remained silent.

"I am," Peter told him, stopping the bouncing ball as he turned to face Wolf. "Probably just as much as you. You're my brother, Wolf. I don't want to leave you. Or Ping Hai and Kahn. But, getting angry about something I can't change doesn't do any good, either."

"You're too damn complacent, that's the problem," Wolf grumbled.

"Disciplined," Peter corrected.

"You say tomato," Wolf responded, drawing a confused look from Peter.

"What does that--never mind," Peter said, deciding he'd figure it out later. "Maybe your mom's changed," he ventured.

"I doubt it," Wolf said, with a derisive snort. "I guarantee you, two months from now, she'll get bored playing mommy and drop me here, again."

"Maybe the Kelleys will do the same thing," Peter said, softly.

"Peter, you've only been here eight months," Wolf said, just as quietly. "I've been in and out of this place for most of my life. Trust me when I say you don't want to do anything to screw this up. Take whatever foster family you can, because it's bound to be better than this place."

"Is being with your mom better than being here?" Peter challenged.

"That's different," Wolf said, hastily.

"Is it?" Peter asked.

When there was no reply forthcoming from Wolf, he sighed.

"I'm going to miss you, you know," he told him.

Once again, his brother remained silent. Aggravated, Peter tossed the ball at the hoop, watching it sail through, easily. Wolf retrieved it, and tried for a shot of his own.

They played in absolute silence for several minutes, the only sound that of the basketball smacking the gym floor. Finally, Wolf spoke, in such a quiet voice that Peter barely heard him.

"I'm going to miss you, too."

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Peter entered the room they'd said was his, and stopped short in the doorway. The tiny bedroom had obviously, hastily, been cleaned out recently.

A small bed with brand new sheets and blankets was against the far wall, flanked by an old, beat-up dresser and a hastily assembled desk.

Lining the other three walls were cardboard boxes stacked two and three high. Drag marks in the carpet indicated that they'd just been moved.

Peter leaned over and read the label on the closest box. Winter clothes-Mandy.

For a moment, he was angry that they couldn't even give him more than a converted storage room to call his own, but he quickly suppressed the thought. After all, in his position, he could hardly afford to be picky.

Moving further into the room, he dropped his backpack on the bed, quickly spilling the contents out.

Pictures of his father and Wolf went onto the desk, along with his school books. Two pairs of jeans, a few tee shirts, and some underwear and socks went into the dresser. And then the bed was empty.

Peter heaved a sigh as he looked around again.

So much for home sweet home.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"I can't believe you're actually letting me skip school," Peter said, in an amazed tone.

"Technically, it's not skipping as we haven't enrolled you yet," Amanda Kelley told him, smiling. "And, I thought it would be nice to have a family day before we all have to go back to the drudgery of real life."

"Yeah," Peter muttered, his fleeting good mood souring as reality crashed down on him. "Family day."

"Peter, if we'd known about your brother-"

"I know," Peter broke in, quickly.

And he did know. It hadn't escaped John and Amanda Kelley's notice that Peter had a brother; it had just come too late. The day they'd petitioned to foster both boys, instead of just Peter, Miriam Gannett had waltzed back into her son's life.

She had money, she had clout, and most importantly, she had the documents marking her as Wolf's legal mother. And she wanted her son back.

McGregor had promised Wolf, once, that he wouldn't have to go back to her, that he wouldn't have to be separated from Peter. But Sister Agnes wasn't McGregor, and she'd made no such promise. Sister Agnes had sent Wolf back to his mother, without a qualm, and Peter found himself the new ward of the Kelley family.

They weren't a bad family, Peter quickly amended. John and Amanda were great people, very understanding. And Molly, their little girl, his new foster sister, was an amazing kid. They just weren't what he wanted.

If he was completely honest with himself, what he wanted was to have his brother back, to have his father back, to be back at the temple.

And they were all equally impossible.

"So, what do you want to do, today?"

The forced cheer in Amanda's voice dragged him away from his thoughts, and he stared at her for a moment before comprehension dawned.

"You're letting me choose?" he asked.

"Sure are," John chimed in. "Anything you want to do, we will."

"Could we--could we go down to Chinatown for the day?" Peter asked, hesitantly.

"Sounds great," Amanda told him. "It'll be fun. We haven't done anything touristy in a long time."

_'It's not touristy!' _Peter wanted to yell. _'It's practically my home!'_

But he simply smiled and nodded. Staying here was preferable to going back to Pathways, with Sister Agnes and no Wolf, so he'd do anything he had to in order to make it work.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"Would you send Wolf Gannett down to the principal's office?"

Wolf heaved a sigh as, around him, his classmates started snickering and teasing him about what he could have done this time.

"Settle down," the teacher snapped, impatiently. "Gannett, what are you still doing here?"

Wolf grabbed his backpack and headed for the door, his classmates' catcalls echoing behind him. He made his way down to Principal Mitchell's office, only to be told by an overly-perky secretary that he was busy at the moment, but would get to him as soon as he had a free minute.

"Thanks," Wolf muttered, slumping in an available chair and trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head (that sounded far too much like Ping Hai for his liking) that nagged at him to sit up properly.

Finally, Mitchell's door opened, and he was beckoned inside. Wolf's initial burst of curiosity soured when he saw McGregor sitting in one of the visitor's chairs. He sank into the other one with trepidation, feeling fear clench at his heart.

"Why are you here?" he asked, ignoring Mitchell's outrage at his rudeness. "You wouldn't come here in the middle of the day unless something was wrong."

"No, I wouldn't," McGregor acknowledged. "Wolf, there's been an accident."

"What?" Wolf asked, confused. "What kind of accident? Is Peter hurt? Is that why you're here?" he demanded, rising slightly out of his chair in panic.

"Peter's in the hospital," McGregor said, his voice calm and soothing. "He was struck by a hit-and-run driver, earlier this morning."

He paused for a breath, and his next words shattered Wolf's heart.

"He's unconscious, and they're afraid he might not wake up."


End file.
